When he
returned to the bedside, he dropped himself into his chair with the
slow, inelastic heaviness of age.
"The fellow played him a scurvy trick," resumed he, presently. "Exactly
what he said or did will never be known, but it was all he safely could
to put his friend in a bad light. It was because he wanted the young
lady for himself; he was ambitious, and needed her money to help him on.
What he said made a good deal of impression on the father; but the
daughter wouldn't believe it then--at any rate, she loved the doctor
still, and would, as long as she knew he loved her."
"Why didn't the other manage to make her think he didn't?"
"Well, sir, he did manage it," returned the professor, compressing his
white-bearded lips, and lowering his eyebrows. "He told the father some
story of having met relations of his in Spain; told him the climate
would cure him of all his ailments, without need of a physician, and
persuaded him to make the journey at last. The doctor heard of it first
by a note written by his intended father-in-law. It contained no
request nor encouragement to accompany them--of course, the daughter was
to go too; her father wouldn't separate from her. But the doctor's
friend had not trusted only to that: he knew that the other's resolution
never to leave his country was not likely to be broken, so he was quite
secure.
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